Lost in Amsterdam continued

Well, as I said earlier, I am not looking for her. I frankly don’t give a damn where she is. I only called you because of all these other calls I was getting.”
“I get it, Birdshit, but I can’t help look for someone without a clue of some sort and usually a good place to start is with a name.”
“Hey, Nut Tree, the name is Vogel, remember?”
“So you’re a Dutchman, too, eh?”
“Ja or. Remember, around here; if ya ain’t Dutch, ya ain’t much, right?”
Amsterdam, Montana is a sleepy enclave of around seven hundred inhabitants, whose founders after braving the rigors of the boat across the Atlantic, the perils of the prairie schooner and walking the last hundred miles because the wagon lost a wheel, settled in the most god-forsaken part of what had just become the State of Montana in 1889. Because they had become homesick for the crowded human conglomerate they had left behind, they decided to name their new place on the globe for the one they had escaped.
“I forgot, but maybe it might help us find whoever you’re looking for. Is that her name, too?’
“You mean Vogelpoop or birdshit?”
“I mean Vogelpoop, This is getting tiresome and getting us nowhere.”
“That’s part of the problem. We were going to get married last year, but she wanted me to change my name. She said she would never be able to be Mevrouw Birdshit and she just kept saying it over and over and over. Birdshit. Birdshit. Birdshit. and I can’t stand the sound of that name.”
“OK I get it. So what happened next?”
“That’s when I decided to change my name to Vogel, but she kept saying it still reminded her of Vogelpoop.”
“So, that’s when she walked out on you?”
“No, that’s when I walked out. I guess I came to the conclusion that if Vogel wasn’t good enough for her we just didn’t have that much in common.”
After decades of choking on and swallowing the gall of rejection, suspicion, ignorance and stupidity, Vogelpoop’s inane drivel was eating a hole in the bottom of the reservoir of Noteboom’s scarred soul. KarlWillem’s phone call was stirring up the bile in Nigel’s throat and adding waves of stress to his morning bellyache. He was sure now that it would turn out to be all downhill, as usual.

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